I have both a great memory and a terrible memory. I can recall lines of dialogue, useless facts and other tidbits of trivia with ease. I tend to remember the placement of items, the speeches of others and other outward displays of behavior.
What I can't do is remember dates well. Or ages well, either. I don't mean the difference between the Jurassic and cretaceous period. I mean, I can never acutely recall how old I was when I experienced something. I have vague understandings of when it occurred - and I can usually trace the event back to whatever grade I was in at the time. But it's hard for me to definitively say I was X years old when Y occurred.
This may cause some uneasiness for readers of this feature - a feature that deals exclusively with my memories.
But then - how do we define memory? If Memento taught us anything, it's that verbose tattoos are always a good idea. But if it taught us anything else, it's that memory is a fickle thing that can be easily shaped and molded depending on current situations. There's that great exchange in Lost Highway:
Ed: Do you own a video camera?
Renee Madison: No. Fred hates them.
Fred Madison: I like to remember things my own way.
Ed: What do you mean by that?
Fred Madison: How I remembered them. Not necessarily the way they happened.
So how things happen isn't the same as how we remember them. And maybe those details we deem pivotal are really incidental - mere set dressing for the important aspects of a memory. That is, how we feel when we look back on the moment.
And so it is whenever I hear "Girls" by The Beastie Boys that I can't remember exactly the cause of the occasion, or when exactly it happened, but I know how I feel. I remember being in a car ride with my whole family on some vacation. Maybe it was in Maine. Or California. Or Washington DC. I'm not sure. All I remember is that my oldest sister had a cassette of Licensed to Ill, and we would put it into the tape player and everyone would sing along to "Girls." I don't remember listening to any other songs on the tape - so I'm guessing my parents only allowed the one song. Or maybe, since there was no accompanying sing along, those memories are now lost in time like tears in the something-or-other.
So when I hear "Girls" I don't think "I was five years old as we made our way up to Kennebunkport." I just think about the singalong, the silly antic energy of a car fool of honkeys singing along with the three jewish rappers and the complete lack of self consciousness as we shouted along with the inane chorus.